


like secondhand smoke

by coricomile (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why had he come here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	like secondhand smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently all I want to do with this fandom is put dicks in Stiles' mouth without coming up with plot. Yay plotless porn?
> 
> Set mid-episode Lunatic, after getting drunk in the woods.

There's a pebble digging into his knee. Stiles can feel its edges, sharp and craggy, sliding into his skin where the mesh of his shorts doesn't quite come down. It hurts, a burst of pain each time he moves, but he can't reach down to brush it away. His fingertips are numb, palms shaky from the bottle of booze he'd smuggled out of his dad's cabinet.

Scott can't get drunk anymore. Not that he did it a lot before, but he'd never feel the dizzy looseness of getting wasted again. Would never get to use a slick lipped lie about alcohol lowering his inhibitions ever again. Those Stiles gets to keep for himself. He'd laugh if he could.

Instead, he pulls his dizzy head back, the pain in his kneecap shivering up his thigh, and drags in a desperate breath. His chest hurts, inside, outside, a giant bundle of burning lungs and aching, hurting rib space that isn't really protected enough. The hand around the back of his head tries to grab his hair, but there isn't enough to hold onto.

"Hang on," Stiles chokes out. He closes his eyes, trying to fight down the nausea rising up in his stomach. Too much. whiskey too fast. "Hang on."

His mouth kind of hurts, sore at the corners where it's been stretched open. In front of him Derek shifts, his wet dick moving that much closer to Stiles' face. It's thick and dark, feels bigger in his mouth than it looks. Stiles frees a hand from its death grip in Derek's jeans and wraps numb fingers around him. Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles is so grateful it stings.

When the nausea clears, he leans in again, lips curling around the fat head of Derek's cock. It's salty and smooth, aggravates the cracking corners of his lips as it slides in. He'd choked the first time. Got swept up in the need to- something. Prove himself, maybe. Hurt himself maybe. He pressed his spinning head down until his throat closed up, a cough already nestled up beside his Adams apple. 

Derek hadn't said anything then, either. Just rubbed the tender spot behind Stiles' ear and waited patiently as he got his breath back. Stiles had expected him to be rougher. Expected to be shoved around, slammed up against a wall and taken by force like he was in a trashy romance novel. Instead, Derek had looked at him standing in the yard, pathetic and drunk and miserable, and let him take the reins.

As Stiles pulls back, heavy tongue tracing the strange line of Derek's dick, a vicious part of him wonders what Scott would do if he saw. They're not hiding. They're not even inside. Stiles is kneeled down on the shitty, oil stained concrete of the garage, the door open and facing the street. It's almost three in the morning, dark but for the cloudy, thin light of the moon. If anyone came by, they'd see him. Them.

Derek's hips move slow and easy, the hand on the back of his head keeping him steady. Stiles stares up at him glassily, willing his mouth open wider. This is the only way Derek fucking Hale will ever get him to shut up.

Stiles sucks at him, messy and jerky. It's the least skilled blowjob anyone has ever gotten, but he's trying. He bounces the back of his skull against the palm of Derek's hand, too drunk-lazy to move forward on his own. His fingers are still wrapped loosely around the base if Derk's cock, a roadblock to keep him from choking again, the teeth of Derek's fly biting into his skin.

Whatever he's doing works. Just as his jaw starts threatening to lock up, Derek pushes him away. It's rough, makes him fall back against his heels, but the part of him that isn't too stupid to remember that Derek's a werewolf knows it wasn't supposed to be. Above him Derek goes tight, the hand that isn't on Stiles' shoulder cupping the head of his dick as he comes. The sound he makes is rough. Like an animal.

Stiles isn't hard. Whiskey dick at sixteen. Leave it to him to screw up his only chance of having someone else touch him. He palms at himself feebly, but his cock stays soft under his basketball shorts. The mean, angry part of himself that's been rising up for weeks says he probably deserves it.

Derek helps him up, his dry hand strong enough to pull Stiles to his feet effortlessly. He's wearing the same look he's had on all night. The one that he'd put on when Stiles had stepped into his space cautiously, approaching a wild animal. The same look he'd had when Stiles had dropped down in a heap at his feet, loose limbed and desperate. Pity. Commiseration.

"Why are you here?" Derek asks.

Stiles watches him tuck his soft dick back into his jeans. It's better than watching his stone cold face, anyway. There's a smudge of darkness on the denim where Derek had wiped his hand. Very, very slowly, Stiles turns himself around and goes back to his jeep. If Derek really wants to know, all he has to do is ask again.

He doesn't.

There's soot and dirt and grease on Stiles' knees and shins, a solid line of it from sock to kneecap. The pebble that's been sinking into him since he'd started is still stuck to his skin, lodged in with the rest of the dirt. He could go to Scott's, dirty and cold, and climb in through the window. He could smear soot and dirt all over Scott's bed and tell him he could be a turncoat too. Instead, he starts the engine and lurches the jeep forward, pretending not to see Derek following behind slowly.

Why had he come here?


End file.
